Chosen
by Clara Barton
Summary: In a frozen land, magic is difficult to find, and those blessed with the ability are often cursed.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: For Ro, for all the reasons, but putting some focus on this as part of your birthday celebrations.

A/N2: Thank you so so much to Ro for editing and supporting me through all the things.

A/N3: Originally posted as a drabble on Tumblr, below is the prologue, reworked a touch and actually edited this time around.

A/N4: Yes. ANOTHER WIP from me. If you've followed me, you understand. This is something I do.

A/N5: Also, the premise of this is heavily influenced/inspired by _Uprooted_ by Naomi Novik.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, magic, drug use

Pairings: 6x3 is the main pairing. Will update side pairings as needed.

 _Chosen_

Prologue

It wasn't quite a sacrifice; it wasn't even really an offering.

It was... a trade.

A bargain between the guild and the all-powerful war mage who kept the port city of Mercansia safe from pirates and invading lords.

The mage could, and frequently did, take what he wanted. _Who_ he wanted.

But, there were some needs that had to be anticipated, some needs that the guild met out of necessity, rather than the whim of the mage.

Mercansia was far to the north, so far north that the Royal Court hadn't bothered to progress through the territory in decades, and even emissaries were rare. So far north that Lord Khushrenada could and did rule with the full authority of a man who knew his liege would never bother to inspect the lands he had been charged with protecting.

So far north that most of the wealthy merchants and minor gentry spent their winters in the south, or sent their children off to be educated and married to southerners as soon as they could walk.

Mercansia was a harsh land, with harsh weather, harsh laws, and harsh bargains.

The guild was small, the archmage old, nearly spell-blind and dry, and the small contingent of masters who lived in the guild hall were no better.

None of the guild mages had fought in epic battles, none had saved King or Queen or kingdom. It was likely none had even seen the southern sea.

Whenever an apprentice or journeyman showed any inkling of talent, of power at all, they usually bargained their way into the retinue of a visiting lord or merchant and fled Mercansia and the crumbling guild hall.

No mage worth his salt - and Mercansia, at the very least, knew well the value of salt - would stay in such a barren land.

Coaxing magic from the frozen earth was as impossible as coaxing a virgin outside for a midnight fuck in the winter.

It was a favorite curse of the master mages, an excuse for why their craft was nearly dead, the reason why their workings flickered like embers on their last breath.

It was why the war mage was able to take what he wanted.

Why the _bargain_ existed in the first place.

Mercansia needed him, and the war mage...

 _Need_ wasn't the right word. Wanted. He _wanted_ his due.

Any mage worth his salt fled Mercansia. Not just to learn and thrive and _find_ magic, but because any mage worth their salt was given to the war mage.

Apprentices as young as six - still lisping through their first workings - were handed over if they showed even the whisper of ability to do more than standard wards or cantrips.

It was rare, though, that any apprentice or journeyman had enough power to interest the war mage.

It had been fifteen years since he had last taken someone, a witch of fierce anger who had been able to melt the show with merely a glance.

And in fifteen years, no one had heard of her or from her or seen her again.

She, like all of the rest, had vanished.

He eats them - drinks their blood,steals their _core_. The rumors in the guild hall were wild, twisted by centuries of fear.

No one knew why the war mage took them, and no one knew what he did with his... offerings.

But every year the harbor ice crumbled and allowed in spring trading, and every year the late fall winds prevented raiders from reaching Mercansia, and no plague had ever ravaged their lands, no armies had ever scaled the eastern pass.

So what the war mage wanted, he got.

Until now.

Until Trowa Barton, the sneering son of Mercansia's richest merchant, twenty-five and and finally invited to endure the trials to become a journeyman.

Until he stepped into the fiery blue ring of magic that seemed to drain the life from the archmage as he cast it, until Trowa Barton bent the flame around his fingers and the winds called out his name.

Everyone knew, in that moment, that the war mage would want him. The war mage would _know_. Would feel the stirring of power.

And the whispered winds would carry his name to the coastal fortress where the war mage resided.

Trowa, the winds would whisper. Take him. He is yours.

Except.

Except that very night, drunk with power and his own self-importance and too many glasses of hard cider, Trowa Barton had decided to bury his fear of the next day - his terror at the unknown life, or death, that the war mage would offer when he came to fetch the new journeyman.

And he had chosen the wrong ground to dig in.

Nanashi, the gardener's apprentice, the boy who never spoke, who never met the eyes of the mages who ordered him about and whose scarred hands and face made him both abhorrent and fascinating.

Trowa had attempted to woo the boy, had sent him gifts purchased with his family's coin and flicked illusions of clouds and spring breezes at him.

Nanashi had remained immune, uninterested, untouchable.

And Trowa... Trowa had discovered his strength in the ring of fire, and was now doomed to a fate literally unimaginable.

Nanashi remained unmoved, remained silent and unyielding when Trowa reached for him, when Trowa sobbed out the misery of his fate. Nanashi shoved away his groping his hands, scowled at his desperate pleas for solace. When Trowa threatened, when he crowded the slight boy against his pallet and jerked at his worn clothing, Nanashi's face went still and dead.

Fear, desperation - _rage -_ welled up inside Trowa and poured out, flames licking his skin and illuminating the scars on Nanashi's face, usually so well-hidden by the fall of his hair.

And Nanashi - he stared at the fire dancing over Trowa and he refused to be impressed, refused to be intimidated.

He reached out, flicked one long, scarred finger against Trowa's palm, as if he were lighting a match, and Trowa was consumed.

The archmage and his favorite apprentice, a beautiful boy who could manage no more than a burst of growth magic before collapsing, found Trowa as they wandered the empty halls hours later.

The war mage was already in the guild hall, the wind-whispered name of Trowa Barton flowing from his cruel lips, and his gloved hands impatiently curling in a summoning spell that failed.

The war mage crackled with fury, his moon-gold hair lifting and twirling about him in his rage, held down only by the silver hood he wore, and the archmage could only stutter, could only see the imminent disaster of the war mage abandoning Mercansia to the forces of man, nature and magic and-

Nanashi stepped forward, Trowa Barton's fur-trimmed cloak around his shoulders, and glared up at the war mage.

"I am Trowa Barton."

The lie was unbelievably bold.

The war mage's lips curled into a sneer, but Nanashi didn't wilt, didn't lower his gaze or his chin.

"Then you are mine," the war mage snarled. He thrust a hand into the space between them, gloved fingers calling on the icy magic beneath their feet.

Nanashi bowed his head over the hand, pressed his lips to the covered flesh, and bit down.

The war mage roared, shocked and furious, and grabbed Nanashi by the back of his head.

"You _insolent_ fool!"

He dragged Nanashi from the guild hall, into the snow, and threw him to the ground.

The archmage stumbled out to watch.

He saw the war mage clutch his wounded hand to his chest and the raise the other.

A whirlwind of snow and ice surrounded first the war mage and then Nanashi, growing higher and fiercer and whistling with force until-

It faded away, leaving nothing behind but an icy gust. Not even the footprints of the war mage or Nanashi remained.

The archmage tottered back into the hall, allowed his favorite apprentice to lead him to a chair, and he wondered just how long it would be before the war mage sought vengeance for the terrible trick of fate that Nanashi had wrought.

-o-


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: For Ro, for all the reasons, but putting some focus on this as part of your birthday celebrations.

A/N2: Thank you so so much to Ro for editing and supporting me through all the things.

A/N3: Originally posted as a drabble on Tumblr reworked a touch and actually edited this time around.

A/N4: Yes. ANOTHER WIP from me. If you've followed me, you understand. This is something I do.

A/N5: Also, the premise of this is heavily influenced/inspired by _Uprooted_ by Naomi Novik.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, magic, drug use

Pairings: 6x3 is the main pairing. Will update side pairings as needed.

 _Chosen_

Chapter One

Nanashi - _Trowa_ , he reminded himself. _I'm Trowa, now_ \- was thrown onto a hard, cold, stone surface.

He stayed down, cheek pressed to the stone, as he tried to get his bearings.

They were certainly no longer in the guild hall. Certainly nowhere Trowa had ever been before.

All around him were signs of wealth, of _power_. Things that the guild hall hadn't had in centuries - maybe not ever. Tapestries decorated the walls, while thick, plus carpets covered most of the floor.

They were, Trowa guessed, in some sort of entrance hall. The war mage lived in a cliffside fortress, so the rumors went, filled with the bribes and gifts of those who wished for his intervention, and those who feared him.

The sharp, precise staccato of well-made boots rang in Trowa's ears.

He tilted his head and saw the war mage, still clutching his arm, striding swiftly away from the spot where Trowa lay.

"Otto!" the mage bellowed.

He looked over his shoulder, and though most of his face was obscured by the silver hood he wore, the man's cruel lips were twisted into a sneer that conveyed his utter loathing.

"Get up," the mage snarled, and crossed to Trowa in three long, furious strides.

Trowa grabbed the hand that latched onto his shirt, but the mage was stronger, and pulled Trowa to his feet.

" _You_ utter fool. Do you have _any_ idea what you've done?"

Trowa met the glinting, silver gaze, barely able to make out the mage's eyes through the hood.

In truth, he had _no_ idea what he had done, or even why he had done it. _Biting_ the war mage, instead of offering him the kiss of peace? It had been foolish. It should have been the last foolish thing Trowa had ever done.

But the war mage hadn't killed him on the spot.

Then again, if the rumors were to be believed, he was saving that for some dark ritual that would drain Trowa's body of life and magic.

He felt his lips curve into a sneer of his own.

Too bad for the war mage. Trowa didn't _have_ any magic for him to drain.

That knowledge fueled his defiance, and after a moment of glaring down at him, the war mage made a disgusted sound and shoved Trowa away.

"My lord?"

They both turned at the new voice.

The liveried man was tall, his brown hair an unwieldy crop of tight curls around his head.

"Otto, please take our _guest_ to his quarters."

The man, Otto, looked at Trowa with poorly-concealed disdain.

" _This_ is the journeyman?"

"So it would seem," the mage muttered. He once again turned away from Trowa, this time stalking from the hall, cape angrily swishing behind him and boot steps echoing and then receding.

Otto shook his head.

"At least you're powerful, huh?" he gestured to the scars on Trowa's face.

Trowa ducked his head. The scars had marked him for as long as he could remember, a cruel joke that would never cease to taunt him.

But Trowa couldn't contradict Otto. Not when he was masquerading as the most promising journeyman mage the guild had produced in decades.

Instead, Trowa just arched an eyebrow, adopting the expression he had seen on _Trowa's_ face more than once.

"The war mage instructed you to take me to my quarters."

Otto stared at him for a long moment, and then barked out a dry laugh.

"Oh yes, he did, your lordship. Please, allow me to take you there."

Trowa didn't remark on the sarcasm, and he fell into step just behind Otto.

He was led through several corridors, up a flight of stairs, then another, and when Trowa paused to look out of one of the narrow windows, he gasped.

They were high on the cliffs, with nothing but the cruel, gray ocean stretched out before them and the dark, angry clouds of a winter storm brewing overhead.

 _Desolate_ didn't even begin to describe it.

Otto finally came to a halt, opening a narrow wooden door, and gestured for Trowa to step inside.

"Your quarters, _my lord._ "

Trowa gave him a dark look at the continued, sarcastic use of the title, but he stepped past the servant and into the room beyond.

It was, without a doubt, the largest and grandest room Trowa had ever been in.

The furnishings were exquisite - a sturdy, four poster bed with rich, brocade curtains pulled back to display a luxurious full mattress and fine linens; a gleaming desk and a leather-backed chair; a tall wardrobe inlaid with intricately-detailed carvings; a polished chest at the foot of the bed; thick carpets on the floor; brilliant tapestries on the walls; a fire in the huge stone fireplace.

"This is _mine_?" Trowa couldn't help but ask.

Otto smirked.

"Oh - is this not to your lordship's tastes?"

"I'm no lord," Trowa finally snapped.

"Right you are," Otto replied, stepping into the room and crowding Trowa against the mantle. He could feel the fire's warmth against the backs of his legs. He glared back at the servant, refusing to be cowed. "There's one lord here, and you'd do well to remember that. _And_ to learn some manners."

Trowa continued to glare. _The_ Trowa would have unleashed a torrent of threats and sputtering magic at any servant who presumed to lecture him.

Otto made a sound of distaste.

"You will be fetched for the midday meal, _sir_." Otto gave a sarcastic bow, and then left, slamming the door shut behind him.

Trowa waited for the sound of a bolt being thrown, but there was none. After a few moments, he crept over to the door and tried the handle.

The door swung open easily.

That was… unexpected.

As was the _room_.

It wasn't, Trowa couldn't help but think, the place you kept someone you intended to murder.

But if it had to do with magic, if it was anything like the tedious, arcane rituals of the guild, then perhaps this was part of it. Perhaps, as some sort of sacrifice, Trowa had to be cared for in this manner?

He had done his best to avoid the mages when they were at work in the guild, staying outside in the gardens as much as possible, coming indoors only after the evening meal, when the chill of winter was too great for him to remain out of doors after dark.

Judging by the sun's position over the horizon, there were several hours yet until the midday meal. Hours that Trowa could spend in this gilded prison, or hours that he could use to escape.

He didn't know what was in store for him - perhaps the war mage was simply waiting until after the meal before he killed Trowa? - and while the idea of _food_ held no small measure of appeal, Trowa didn't want to squander this opportunity.

So, he looked around the room, opening the chest and wardrobe and desk drawers, and found precious little that would be of use to him.

A small dagger, which he shoved into his boot, a thick quilted shirt that he pulled on over his own rather threadbare garment, and a leather satchel.

The rest of the items in the wardrobe - fine trousers, velvet jackets, brocade vests, linen undershirts - were less than useless.

As soon as he had rearranged himself, Trowa eased out of the door and down the hall.

He had tried to keep track of the path, when Otto led him up to the room, but even so, he quickly grew lost.

Deeper into the bowels of the fortress, where none of the brilliant furnishings covered the dark, worn stone of the keep, where the chill of the winter sea steeped into the rocks and Trowa's bones.

He kept going, though, the niggling sense that _this way_ was the way pushing him onward. Trowa had learned, over the years, to trust his instincts.

After what felt like hours of stealthily creeping along, Trowa came to a large, bolted door at the end of a corridor.

He ran his hands over the age-smoothed wood and pressed his ear to it.

Silence, still and dark.

And then a sudden roar, a swell and crash and then the fading roll of anger.

The ocean.

Feeling his stomach curdle with fear, Trowa eased the locks free and swung the door open.

What lay beyond was a massive cavern, open to the ocean at one end, allowing waves to pour in and pound against the outcroppings of rock. Trowa, standing on a precipice overlooking it all, saw a narrow path that led from his position down, lower and closer to the level of the water, to a sturdy dock and a handful of moored sloops.

Another wave crashed into the cave, setting the boats to frantic dancing and Trowa's stomach to protesting.

He hated the ocean. Had never, ever been this close to it.

There was no way he could pilot one of those boats out of the cave - not at high tide, not ever.

He looked again towards the mouth of the cave, eyes roving over the structure.

Trowa swallowed hard. He could climb. He could scale the rock walls and work his way to the outside and- and hope that the exposed cliffside would have enough handholds for him to escape.

That, or he would no doubt die.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

It was this or whatever nightmare awaited him back in the mage's keep.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Trowa had the chance to determine his own fate, the chance to be _free_.

He swept the fur-lined cloak from his shoulders and tried to shove it into the satchel.

It was too large, the lining too full, and the seams of the bag bulged and strained in protest with only half the cloak stuffed inside.

With a grimace of regret, Trowa left the cloak on the floor at his feet. There was no way he could scale the walls with it around his shoulders, and while the warmth would be _sorely_ missed, he couldn't risk it.

Another deep breath, another slow exhale, and he forced himself to begin.

By the time he made it to the mouth of the cave, his arms felt rubbery and weak, his thighs burned, his hands were blooded and scraped, and he was soaked, perspiration and the ocean swells working against him.

 _If_ he managed to climb the cliff face, he would need to light a fire and warm himself as soon as possible.

 _If_.

The furious ocean lept up, clawing at his feet and legs, making it all but impossible to find secure purchase.

Trowa clung to the rocks and felt the bitter prickle of despair.

There was no way.

This was impossible.

He was going to die _here_.

Alone and forgotten, battered and drowned, bearing a dead man's name.

Defeat choked him, stealing his strength and breath, and Trowa pressed his forehead to the rough, cold cliff.

He felt tears prick his eyes as a fierce wind pushed and pulled at him, cold and sharp, leaving him gasping and sobbing.

Beyond him, the ocean stretched out, gray and ceaseless, with small whitecaps dotting the desolate canvas.

There was nothing, as far as he could see. No hope, no _warmth_.

Unbidden, the memory of spring rose to his mind.

Fragile stems breaking through the snow-cover, younglings stumbling to their feet under a mother's watchful eyes, blossoms unfurling for the first time under Trowa's fingertips.

He would have liked to see another spring, to feel the sun warm on his face.

No. He _would_ see another spring. He would not die here, not _now_. Not after he finally had the chance to escape, not when freedom was this close, not when he could, at last, finally be his own man.

If he did this, if he survived, he would be no one's _boy_ ever again.

For as long as he could remember, Trowa had struggled to survive, had had the _good fortune_ to be amusing enough to capture the attention of a wandering bard and had travelled with the man for years, until a band of mercenaries had come upon them on the road one night and murdered the bard. The captain had decided Trowa had some worth, had decided he could be his _boy_ \- made to fetch and clean and serve the captain's needs. More years, more travel, until the mercenary group had taken a job that was far too ambitious, until they had been nearly wiped out, until only Trowa and the captain had been left alive, and even then, only just. And then, of course, the gardener had found them, an ancient, wiry mage who knew herbs and had the skill to heal them both - in exchange for Trowa. So he became someone else's boy, serving the gardener, travelling with him back to the far north of Mercansia, to the frozen, forgotten duchy on the northern coast, and he fetched and he cleaned and he served. Until Trowa Barton tried to make Trowa _his_ boy too.

The memory of that night - of _last night_ \- unleashed a dark, caustic swell of rage deep inside Trowa.

His sobs turned into a furious, primal roar.

He would not die here.

He would see spring.

He would be free.

Trowa forced himself to move, forced himself to claw his way free from the cave, forced himself to keep going, forced himself to climb, forced himself to feel none of the pain, none of the fear.

He would be free.

He would see spring.

He would not die here.

And then, Trowa was reaching up for a new hand-hold and found _nothing_.

He tilted his head back and tried to lever himself upwards.

And cried in relief.

He was there.

He had made it.

Trowa hauled himself over the edge and fell down, panting and _empty_ , and tried to breathe.

He was free.

He would see spring.

He would not die here.

"Where the fuck did you come from?"

Trowa rolled over onto his back and squinted up into the bright winter sky.

A man dressed entirely in rags, scraggly hair and beard hanging in clumps, held a rough wooden staff pointed in Trowa's direction.

His eyes were cloudy white, and magic crackled along his fingers and over the staff, lunging through the air towards Trowa.

-o-

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: For Ro, for all the reasons.

A/N2: Thank you so so much to Ro for editing and supporting me through all the things.

A/N3: Originally posted as a drabble on Tumblr reworked a touch and actually edited this time around.

A/N4: Yes. ANOTHER WIP from me. If you've followed me, you understand. This is something I do.

A/N5: Also, the premise of this is heavily influenced/inspired by _Uprooted_ by Naomi Novik.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, magic, drug use, non-graphic references to past non-con

In this chapter a hare/rabbit dies. There is blood. Also general violence in this chapter.

Pairings: 6x3 is the main pairing. Will update side pairings as needed.

 _Chosen_

Chapter Two

Trowa lost track of time and distance.

He trudged through the snow, the thin linen of his work shirt plastered to his body from his own sweat and the salty spray of the ocean, and was now stiff and frozen. His boots had fared no better on the climb, the soft-soled leather ripped in several places, and with each step Trowa took he felt the cold prick of snow against his bare toes.

Ahead of Trowa, tugging jerkily on the rope lead he had fastened around Trowa's wrists, the wild-haired man seemed entirely unaffected by the cold, by the relentless wind pushing against them, by the setting sun.

The man had waited for Trowa to explain how he had come to be sprawled on the edge of a cliff, bloody and panting, and when Trowa had offered no explanation, frozen in fear at the crackle of the man's magic between them, he had sneered and dragged Trowa to his feet and secured his wrists.

Trowa felt numb, from the cold, from his failure to secure his own freedom, from the realization that he was, once again, at the mercy of someone else.

Someone who was clearly _not_ sane.

The man had been muttering to himself during the brisk trek, words too low for Trowa to make out clearly, and in a language that Trowa suspected was entirely of the own man's making. Every once in a while, he would look over his shoulder at Trowa, milky eyes roving over Trowa's shivering frame, and his lips would crack into a smile before he chuckled to himself and continued on.

Trowa had fallen several times, stumbling in the snow, his muscles protesting nearly every step he took, and the man had simply jerked Trowa to his feet and continued on.

It was dusk before they reached the scant cover of a forest, and the man's mutterings grew louder and more rapid as he navigated his way between the massive, soaring pine trees that grew around them.

He stopped, finally, and shoved Trowa forward.

Trowa hadn't been expecting the sudden halt or the jerk on his wrists, and he went sprawling face-first into the snow.

He pulled himself up, gasping for air, face burning from the cold.

The man cackled and kicked Trowa's rear.

"Pick it up," he growled.

Trowa had no idea what he was talking about, and he looked around wildly.

 _Pick what up?_

He wondered if the man was hallucinating something, wondered if-

The man kicked him again, and Trowa winced but bit back the hiss of pain that threatened to pass between his lips.

"Pick it up," the man repeated.

And then Trowa saw it.

A snare was a few feet in front of him, partially hidden by a barren scrub bush. In the trap was a hare, still alive but only just barely.

The man kicked him again, foot pushing Trowa in the direction of the snare, and Trowa crawled towards the struggling creature.

Fearful, bulging eyes met his.

Trowa had always had a way with animals, had been able to coax even the most feral of creatures to trust him and let him care for them.

He reached for the animal, movements slow and steady.

"Little one," he crooned, "stop struggling."

The hare's movements slowed, though its chest continued to heave with strained breathing.

Trowa's hands trailed over the soft fur, and the animal stilled completely. It turned its head, and Trowa felt the wet nose against his skin, felt the animal nuzzle at him, practically begging for help.

Trowa's fingers found the snare, and he felt the warmth of blood where it had cut into the animal's skin. Gently, he pulled it loose, and caught the animal as it made a leap for freedom.

The man laughed and plucked the shivering creature from Trowa's arms.

In one swift motion, the man sliced the rabbit's quivering throat, and Trowa felt the spray of heat on his face and neck as the blood fell on him.

The man laughed again and reached down, rubbing his thumb over Trowa's cheek, smearing the blood.

"One for dinner, and one for dessert," the man cackled.

He shoved the dead rabbit into Trowa's hands, and then roughly hauled him to his feet.

They checked two more snares, but they were, thankfully, both empty.

Finally, the man led Trowa towards a jumble of rocks that he recognized as the entrance to a salt mine.

He felt a brief moment of hope. If there were miners-

But no. As they neared, he saw the hanging leather curtain that separated the mine entrance from the frozen world and the spiked remains of small game, bodies exposed to the cold air and skins nowhere in sight.

There were no miners here. This mine had long ago been abandoned, Trowa realized.

And the mage who now held him captive had taken it over.

The man came to a stop just beside the mine entrance, and he jerked Trowa down onto his knees.

There were symbols carved into the rocks, figures of wild animals, scratches to count off time or something else, and as Trowa looked around the ring of dead animals, all missing their skin, he found his gaze drawn to the leather curtain that covered the mine entrance.

Leather. Not fur.

Trowa looked at the man again, at his crooked grin and milky eyes, at his leather cloak and leather tunic and leather leggings and leather boots.

The leather was sewn together, large patches of it, the tan skin similar in color, but each patch slightly different, some a paler tone, some darker.

It looked like no animal hide Trowa had ever seen before. Certainly not the hide of any of the animals on display around them.

The man pulled the hare from Trowa's hands and tossed it onto the snow, and then grabbed at Trowa's ankles.

Trowa hadn't fought before, had been exhausted and devastated and fearful of the man's magic.

But he struggled now, kicking at the hands that reached for him.

The man grunted and then growled, baring his teeth at Trowa, and then shouting at him in that strange language.

Trowa landed a sharp blow to the man's left knee, and he went down with a pained cry.

Trowa scrambled to his feet, tripping and twisting his ankle in the process, but forcing himself to rise and stumble away.

He felt the man jerk at the rope, but Trowa pulled with all of his might, managing to yank free, and-

Something connected with the back of his skull, sharp and large and-

-o-

The sky was a vast swath of jet black ink, millions of salt crystals strewn across it and blinking down at Trowa.

It was beautiful, and the immenseness of it made Trowa feel infinitesimal and insignificant.

He blinked and frowned at the uncharacteristically poetic thoughts, and he wondered what had happened to his earlier panic, his pain and fear and despair. His constant companions.

Trowa moved his head to the side, shifting his gaze away from the endless night, and he felt a sharp, sudden jolt of pain in his skull.

He winced and tried to lift his hands to feel the wound, but as he moved, his hands stopped, held in place by a rope. He felt a corresponding tug on his ankles.

Dimly, he realized that he had been trussed up like an animal, hands and ankles bound together. He wondered if he would be strung on a pole and roasted over a fire.

Trowa stopped trying to move his hands, and he instead tried to focus on his surroundings.

He could barely feel his limbs - everything felt numb. He didn't know if that was from the cold, or if he had suffered blood loss from the head injury.

Images of men crawling across battlefields, the last of the life draining from gaping holes in their flesh, filled his mind.

He pushed the thoughts away.

There was a fire, not far away, blue flames crackling over slender logs.

He felt no heat at all from the fire, and he wondered at that. If the flames were hot enough to burn blue, then surely-

The wild mage sat on the other side of the fire, milky eyes luminous in the blue light, and Trowa realized the fire must be some conjuring of his.

The man's eyes met Trowa's, and his lips split into a toothy grin that made Trowa shudder.

The man rose to his feet, and Trowa instinctively tried to move away, struggling against his bonds. But the rope that secured his feet and hands together had been tied off somewhere, and Trowa found that he could only roll to one side or the other.

The mage approached, and he laughed at Trowa's futile struggles.

He reached towards Trowa, and Trowa saw the glint of a curved blade in the man's hand.

The mage grabbed the loose hem of Trowa's shirt, and Trowa swung his bound hands forward, knocking the mage's grip free.

He growled and lashed out with the knife, the blade sweeping across the backs of Trowa's hands.

Trowa ignored the sudden, fiery pain, and he tried to roll away from the next swipe of the blade.

He felt the metal sink into his skin, pain lancing through him, and he screamed into the snow, his entire world white, hot agony.

The blade was pulled free, and the mage rolled Trowa over.

"Stop struggling, little one." The man's voice was a parody of Trowa's earlier attempts to soothe the hare.

Trowa felt nauseous - at the words, at the pain, and he fumbled weakly as the mage drew his hand back again.

He managed to block the blade, and he felt the sharp edge skitter across his knuckles, the flesh separating and crimson seeping from the wound and down to the rope around Trowa's wrists.

"Little one," the mage growled as he grabbed hold of Trowa's wrists. "Little one," he repeated, and cackled at the grimace on Trowa's face.

The mage used his grip on Trowa's wrists to haul him closer to the fire, and Trowa saw the smear of blood on the snow, a shadow leaking from his soon-to-be corpse.

Trowa was dropped down beside the fire, close enough that one of the logs brushed against his shoulder.

He felt heat, and he tried to roll away from it, but the mage put one booted foot on Trowa's chest, holding him in place.

Looking up into the glazed eyes of the mage, Trowa knew that he was about to die. Knew that his entire life, one cage after another, was about to end here, in the snow, under the stars, at the hands of a wild mage who would peel the skin from his body.

There would be no more spring.

"Little one," the mage said again, and he rocked the ball of his foot on Trowa's chest in a mocking caress.

Trowa grabbed at the foot, trying to throw the mage off, but the attempt was so pathetic and weak that the mage didn't even have to fight back.

He just laughed and laughed and laughed.

The mage gestured, flicking his fingers towards the fire, and cobwebs of blue sprang from it, surging through the air and dancing closer and closer to Trowa.

He held his breath as the world became a translucent blue shroud as the fire surrounded him.

The mage laughed once more, and then Trowa felt everything and nothing all at once as the fire sank into his skin.

The pain was unimaginable, reshaping Trowa's entire existence into agony. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out, and Trowa lay there, open-mouthed, unable to breathe, unable to think.

"Little one, blue suits you, little one."

The mage reached down, unconcerned by the writhing flames, and brushed Trowa's cheek with his thumb.

That single point of contact was immediately free of pain, and Trowa tried to focus on it, gasping for breath, leaning into the touch even though it made the rest of his body ache and his muscles tremble with effort.

He closed his eyes as the mage laughed again, and he felt all of his despair and pain and rage well up, choking him, forcing its way onto his tongue, the taste of it acrid and bitter, and then Trowa screamed.

He screamed and screamed and screamed, and all around him blue turned into red, the color of his blood, and the mage's eyes widened, and then he too started to scream.

But his cry was weak, and trailed off into choking gasps that turned into wet, gurgling coughs.

He stumbled away from Trowa and fell to his knees, clutching at his throat.

His eyes bulged, and he dug his fingers into the neck of his leather shirt and cape, pulling at them, straining to breathe.

"Please," he managed to gasp, "little one, please-"

Trowa's roar of fury drowned out the plea, and the red flames swept away from Trowa and surrounded the mage, twisting around his body, curling into his flesh and lighting his clothing on fire.

Trowa tried to rise to his knees, but only managed to roll onto his side, away from the dying campfire.

He watched as the mage writhed on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames as they consumed him. But the snow simply melted away under him, and the scent of burning flesh filled the still night air.

Trowa shuddered in revulsion at the too-familiar smell.

He thought of the real Trowa Barton, at the way his entire body had turned incandescent as fire consumed him, at the ash on Trowa's hand from where they had touched.

Other thoughts tugged at him, distant and half-formed, nightmares that had haunted him for as long as he could remember. Screams of terror. Burning homes. Cries for help. Charred bodies. And the all-consuming feeling of helplessness and terror.

Bile rushed up Trowa's throat and he heaved, clutching at the snow as he emptied the contents of his stomach, pain surging through his body with each wretch.

Finally, the mage was nothing more than a pile of black and gray sludge among the melted snow, and Trowa's body was empty.

He fell back onto the snow, once again on his back, once again staring up at the endless sky that was so far away.

He was alone, and he was bleeding out into the snow, and he would soon be dead.

Trowa drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and then coughed and groaned as pain radiated from his side and the wound from the mage's knife.

He fumbled with the ropes around his wrists, but his hands were numb and clumsy and weak.

He gave up.

Looking up at the stars, he could just barely make out the shape of a dragon.

 _That's the great dragon Mega. She watches over all of her children. She's always there, even when you can't see her. She loves you, my dearest. She'll protect you._

Trowa had no idea where the words, where the soft, lilting woman's voice came from.

A memory?

A dream?

Was he being welcomed to the afterlife?

There was something familiar about the words and the voice. Trowa had heard them before. Trowa _knew_ that voice.

He tried to think, tried to focus on the tendril of connection, but it seemed to evaporate almost immediately, and Trowa was left with tears in his eyes.

Alone.

There was something peaceful about that, at least. He was, after all of this time, finally free.

His lips twisted into a bitter smile.

All it had taken was death to release him.

The ropes continued to chafe at his wrists, and Trowa looked away from the stars and towards the remains of the wild mage.

He could see the knife, just to the side.

Trowa gritted his teeth and forced himself to roll onto his belly, forced himself to ignore the blinding surge of pain and, after a few excruciating, gasping attempts to breathe, he managed to prop himself up on his hands and knees.

He crawled over to the knife, struggling to pick it up with his numb fingers.

First, he cut the rope around his ankles, and then the bloody rope around his wrists.

 _Now_ he was free.

Now he could die.

Laying back in the snow once more, Trowa took one last deep breath, able to ignore the pain from his wounds, able to simply _be_ for perhaps the only time in his entire life.

And then he felt a tug, the sensation of a rope jerking beneath his ribcage, of his very heart being yanked forwards.

He cried out at the new and unexpected pain and clawed at the spot over his chest, desperate to be free of the sensation.

But there was nothing there. No rope, no binding, nothing that would-

The darkness of the night sky was suddenly awash with the brightest, purest light Trowa had ever seen.

He blinked, and then squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught.

"You're alive."

Trowa slitted his eyes open, still wary of the light, but then his eyes flew open wide in shock.

Standing before him, his face pinched with fear, was the war mage.

The last thing Trowa felt were the mage's gloved hands cupping his cheeks.

And then, mercifully, he felt nothing.

-o-


End file.
